With each passing day - some quieter, some heavier - the pain persists. The inability to eat has made the wait for death increasingly agonizing. I realize, to no avail, that lucidity occasionally eludes me. Losing my mind, the storehouse of my knowledge and memories, is a particularly distressing thought. It reminds me of the line Roy Batty delivers in the film Blade Runner, "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain."
I often find solace in my old books and memories, stored away in my study alongside some aged notebooks. As I peruse and reminisce, I stumble upon the notebook where I've penned my memoirs. It's a book I had somewhat forgotten. Upon finding a clean page, I begin to write.
In the early 90s, a friend in the government, grateful for a real estate deal I had facilitated, gifted me an all-expenses-paid trip to Ibiza, Spain.
Despite my busy schedule that year, I made time for the trip, arranging to go in the peak of summer. I organized a governess to look after my children and set off on my journey.
After a long flight, we arrived at the legendary Pikes Hotel. I was truly taken aback; never in my life had I imagined staying in such a luxurious place. I was pleasantly surprised to find that my friend, a valued client of the establishment, had generously covered the cost of both food and drinks.
Delighted, I decided to make the most of my stay - sunbathing, savoring the food and drinks, and taking in the paradisiacal landscapes the hotel offered. On one of those afternoons, I can't recall if it was the second or third day, the hotel hosted a small dinner in an open space. There were exclusive tables for VIPs, where I recognized a few Anglo-Saxon artists, and tables for other guests. Preferring to avoid attention, I chose to sit at one of the more secluded group tables.
Lost in the enjoyment of my dinner and my thoughts, I failed to notice the arrival of company. As I continued to savor my meal, a sweet, sensual female voice with a Castilian accent asked, "Good evening, sir. May I join you?" I turned to see a brunette with captivating green eyes that sparkled in the night. Her face was as beautiful and sensual as any I had seen before. "Of course," I replied, and we struck up a casual conversation, discussing current topics and introducing ourselves.
Her name was Alba, a Spanish model by profession, around 25 years old. Over drinks, she confessed that she was the mistress of a prominent Spanish politician who had gotten drunk and passed out in his room, prompting her to venture out and enjoy herself.
Suddenly, a small group of guitarists began playing "Bamboleo". Alba rose from her seat and began swaying her stunning body to the rhythm. Her slim figure, small breasts, impressive waistline, and firm, petite buttocks were accentuated by a tight black cocktail dress. Words fall short of describing the sensuality of her dance, a spectacle I alone could appreciate due to the remote location of our table. In a swift motion, she drew me from my seat and we started to dance. I was grateful for the cover of darkness, which hid my less than stellar dance moves. Nevertheless, Alba seemed to delight in my efforts.
After several hours, the dinner concluded and everyone dispersed. Alba and I decided to stroll barefoot on the grass. She sparked such trust in me that I felt comfortable sharing some of my deepest, most painful experiences. In turn, she confessed that her extraordinary beauty had been both a key to many doors and a passport to suffering. She had endured abuse and indignities to reach her current status. At one point during our nocturnal conversation, she clung to me, sobbing on my shoulder. Around 3 in the morning, we decided to return to the hotel. I escorted her to her room before retiring to my own quarters.
A few days passed, and one morning, while enjoying my breakfast by the pool, a familiar "Hello" broke my concentration. "Hello," I replied. She revealed that she had had a disagreement with the politician for leaving without his permission. The morning after that night, someone had called the politician's wife, forcing him to return to the mainland. She decided to complete her stay, as they did not need to return to Madrid together. We shared breakfast, and completely sober, we enjoyed the pool and the landscapes the hotel offered. As the sun set, I invited her to my room for a drink. Even before we finished our first drink, we began to kiss and caress each other, a prelude to what was to follow.
Alba exuded sensuality. Once she removed her tiny swimsuit, she revealed a body that would make any Greek sculpture envious. With remarkable skill, she performed oral sex on me, and I couldn't resist reciprocating until we both reached a phenomenal orgasm. Afterwards, we made love like a young couple into the night until we fell asleep, exhausted.
Upon waking and seeing her asleep, I admired her unparalleled beauty and her heart, which, at least that night, did what it wanted without submitting to anyone or anything. I rose to shower, and when she woke up, I told her that I was leaving for my city that day. She simply lowered her gaze as tears welled up in her eyes. She said nothing more, bid me farewell, I gave her a card with my contact information, and I left.
About three years passed, and I continued with my usual job and activities. Suddenly, my secretary informed me of a call, "Mr. Williams, there's a call for you. She didn't want to give her name." "Go ahead," I responded. "Hello, how are you, James? Do you remember me?" a sweet female voice with the unmistakable accent asked. "Alba, how are you?" I replied, "I'm outside an office that says 'Williams Enterprises'." I went out to find her, spotting her next to a public telephone on the sidewalk outside my office. At first, it was difficult for me to recognize her. She was dressed in casual clothes, jeans and a simple blouse, almost without makeup, but her beautiful green eyes and her smile confirmed it was her.
We went to eat, and she told me that she had returned to Madrid, but the press had already scandalized her relationship with the politician to the point that he didn't want to see her anymore. Fearing retaliation, she fled Madrid and took refuge in the province, where she found a job in a bakery, all with one goal in mind - to return to me.
"It took you three years to achieve it. Why didn't you call me before? I could have helped," I remarked. "No, it was necessary that it was my effort and not something given to be with you," she replied. "But you assumed the risk that I could have lied, that my story was false and not sincere," I commented. "It was a risk I had to take, but I always knew you were sincere. But look at me, I'm not the same anymore," she replied. Indeed, she had changed. Her figure was not as stylized, her hair a bit mistreated, her hands with wounds and rough from hard work, but it was her. Her beauty, even without expensive makeup or elegant hairstyles, was still there. "You are more beautiful than before," I replied.
Without a place to stay, I invited her to stay at my house. I introduced her to my children, who were still just kids. They immediately took a liking to her, thanks to some chocolate cupcakes she made for them, and I offered her my unconditional help. As the days passed, I grew more and more accustomed to having her in my home. I returned from work with more enthusiasm, knowing that she was there. Inevitably, I fell in love with her.
As the months passed, we decided to get married. We formalized our union in a small and elegant ceremony, attended only by my family and my closest friends. During our married life, we discovered that she was sterile, a result of some injury or damage received in her past. This saddened us greatly.
I lived happily with her for about 10 years, until a fatal accident occurred. She was returning from the supermarket when a motorcycle hit her on the driver's side, causing her to flip over a slope. When they rescued her, she had severe injuries in her abdomen. At the hospital, they described them as irreparable injuries. I still remember her last words, "Thank you for making me happy." Moments later, while holding my hand, she passed away.
From my desk, I retrieve a photograph - Alba playing with my children. As I gaze at it, I am moved to tears. Despite the pain, I hold no regrets about the life I've lived. Yet, it's heartbreaking to realize that my three great loves met with such tragic ends.
I close the notebook and set aside my fountain pen. Suddenly, an intense pain seizes my chest. Could this be the end? I find myself contemplating the possibility of an afterlife, envisioning a reunion with my loved ones. The thought brings me a sense of peace and joy, a solace in the silence. Then, just like that, the pain subsides. Nothing hurts anymore.
The end